


The Descent

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dissociation, Hamburr, Implied Smut, Implied former Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Just a bit at the end but it's there, M/M, Mania, Mental Illness, Office AU, Please tell me if there's anything else you would like tagged, Scripted Body AU, Suicide, Synesthesia, They're both messed up, implied sex, lawyer AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Or, His Name Burns on Closed Lips.Hamilton speaks his mind, says the words bubbling in his heart. Aaron stays silent, refuses to say anything that may give him away. The descent from sanity to chaos is a journey.Scripted Bodies AU: When a person speaks their mind on something, and they speak it vehemently, with passion and true belief in that they say, their words appear on their body, for the world to see. Some are proud of their words; some hide them, pray they are never seen. Enter Alexander Hamilton, the man who always speaks his mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Again, TW for suicide, mental illness, dissociation and mania.  
> First time ever writing romance, if you can call it that, that isn't completely poetic or obscured by a synesthete's descriptions of colour. Hope you enjoy.

His name burns on closed lips.  
He loved him. He really did. It was a startling development, the descent from sanity into chaos—

They met when he moved branches. A new lawyer, joining them in New York. Bright, outspoken, talented, spoken of with betting upon him becoming the youngest lawyer in New York City. But Aaron was younger. From the moment he saw him, he knew he had found a force to reckon with. Words covered his skin, miniscule letters crowding for room along the pale flesh. The only place seemingly unmarked by his words was his face, lively and determined. Aaron had shaken his hand, and the man had done a double take. "Are you Aaron Burr, sir?" Slightly surprised, he had nodded. "It's a pleasure to meet you! I'm Alexander Hamilton, at your service, sir."  
"Please, there's no need to call me sir. Aaron will do just fine." Hamilton had nodded, and began barraging him with questions. Aaron had answered with short phrases, not very interested in saying much about himself. Instead, he asked vague questions back, and observed him as he spoke. Hamilton spoke at length on the simplest of topics, passion in his voice. Aaron only saw him flinch once. When their conversation was over, he saw the edge of a word peeking out from Hamilton's collar. It hadn't been there before.  
Hamilton begins to make a name for himself. He wins most, if not all, of his cases. He begins to rise in rank. He is noted in the media reports. His image becomes popular, the sight of someone with so many words upon their skin rare, never seen in their time. Nobody else is willing to bare their soul, to speak aloud for their beliefs. But Hamilton does. Aaron watches, catches every time that Hamilton flinches momentarily in the courtroom, in debates. He wonders.  
As Hamilton rises, Aaron watches him. He isn't sure of his feelings towards the man, is unsure whether he hates him, admires him, loves him. He knows only the intrigue, knows he wants, needs, to know more about the man.

The descent was slow, wondering, curious. It was ice melting from steel beams, the outside starting to drip from the sun as the metal inside warms from the inside out--

He and Alexander talk every day, as they had since the beginning. As the days pass, Aaron finds himself becoming drawn to Alexander. It isn't a feeling he can describe correctly, he doesn't know the words, the feelings, what they are or what they might be except for curiosity, intrigue, the need to know. As much as Alexander talks and talks, he never gives quite the information Aaron wants. But he learns more and more about Alexander, learns of his struggle as an orphan and shares his own ('You're an orphan? Of course!'), learns that he had a boyfriend in the army who died, prompting Alexander to move to New York. He listens, and he waits for the right thing to happen, the moment of clarity as to what he feels and what he wants to know. He thinks there might be something other than intrigue in his mind. He doesn't know what.

Then again, it wasn't always slow. The descent was also fire, burning Aaron alive as he fell, scrabbling for a handhold to slow himself down--

They go out for drinks one night, and Aaron wakes the next morning on his couch with Alexander laying upon him, asleep with only his boxers and a T-shirt on. Aaron is thankfully fully dressed, but there is a mess to clean up nonetheless. After Aaron changes, loaning an outfit to Alexander, and makes them coffee, the two hungover men discuss what put them in this position. Aaron hides most of his delight when they reach a mutual agreement of attraction, and is finally able to identify one of the feelings that plagues him. They begin a cautious relationship, each initially hesitant for their own reasons. But soon, they settle into rhythm, into a niche that is described by many poets and young romance writers as love.  
There is more than this shallow description of love, though, there are eggshells of delicate subjects and quiet refrains trampled as they stumble into Aaron's bedroom, entangled in emotion and body. When they strip, there is stark contrast between the two heated bodies, unseen by either as they curl into each other for the first time. When Aaron awakes, Alexander is peering at him in confusion, propped up on his elbow. "Where are your words?" Aaron chooses not to answer.

The descent was not clear, no, it was covered in fog and colour and sound and words, so many words and phrases and characters taking up space with so much meaning--

Aaron discovered new things about Alexander every time he trailed his eyes, hands, lips over his body, covered in so many minute words, Alexander's heart laid out for all to see in case they hadn't heard. He reads speeches, remarks, imagines Alexander yelling for the world to hear from a soapbox, heated debates, firm declarations. He asks Alexander one night, as they sat together, "What does it feel like?" To have words upon your skin, to feel your voice being written across your flesh, recording those things you truly believe, with passion and emotion and heart? Aaron doesn't know.  
"It hurts, when it happens. Like fire, or someone dragging a calligraphy pen across your skin. But you get used to it." He pauses. "Well, I did." Aaron wonders later if it hurts everyone like this.   
"Why do you have so many?"   
"I say what needs to be said. I say what I believe in." Something it seems Aaron has never done. He nods. Later that night, Alexander faces him as they lay in bed and whispers, "I love you." Aaron opens his mouth to reply, but can't make the words come out. Instead, he draws Alexander close to him and embraces him. As he watches, the simple phrase appears at the base of Alexander's jaw. I love you. And God, how Aaron wants to reply, wants to show his love. His wrists begin to burn, and he gasps, drawing back and staring. No writing appears upon the dark skin, no words expressing his feelings. Instead, they gaze in somber silence as his veins, visible on the underside of his wrists and weaving delicately through his hands, turn dark as the ink on Alexander's skin. He discovered something that night: the words spoken belonged to Alexander; the words unspoken belonged to him.

It had always been the case with Aaron; when he fell, he fell hard. And he was falling, tumbling down from the line above where he had always been, beginning to see the first hints of chaos--

Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night, silent screams on his lips, words running through his mind, yelling, howling to be heard. The black in his veins spreads those nights, like the ink of unspoken words was building, growing. Alexander holds him those nights, murmuring to him. But Alexander isn't much better.   
Aaron finds him in his study, sometimes, writing frantically without his normal muttering to himself. He watches as black ink stutters into existence on Alexander's skin, words and half-phrases scrawling onto his flesh despite the lack of speech. Aaron worries. On those days, he goes in and joins Alexander, holds him gently until his hand begins to shake, the pen slowing, them dropping as he hunches over, shoulders beginning to shudder lightly. On those days, they lay together, simply holding one another, silently wondering how soon it will be until they fall.

And Aaron should have seen, should have known that the ground would come too fast. He should have known that every jump, every flight, every fall has an end, and sometimes you can't see it coming until it's too late-- 

Alexander's words begin to become messy, nearly unintelligible in their tiny splotches. Aaron begins to see more pain in Alexander's eyes when they appeared. The ink creeps up his neck, winding around his ear. When Aaron can't sleep, he tries to read. He can never make out quite what the words are. The sight doesn't help the bad nights, which slowly grow worse. As the ink spreads on Alexander's skin, it spreads through Aaron's veins, the black trailing through his arms, his legs, his torso, his neck. His chest is slowly coming to look like a bruise. It hurts as much. It hurts when he wakes up wanting to scream but unable to unlock his throat. It hurts when he holds Alexander, forcing his to lay down his pen and weep. It hurts when he sees fear beginning to mix with the pain in Alexander's eyes. It hurts when he sees the writing on Alexander's skin, though it looks less like writing now and more like the splotches a pen will make when dragged, torn through paper in fits of rage and tears and fear. It hurts.

And while the fall may have been painful, oh, he couldn't have been prepared for the ground. The final impact, the end of the line, the hit that would knock him out of his head and body and mind--

Alexander becomes frantic at times, his pen spattering ink across his calloused hands, his eyes intent yet empty behind his glasses. Aaron becomes empty at times, unable to move, to speak, to escape the weight on his mind, chains woven by ink visible in the blackened irises of his frantic eyes. They stay close during these times, though even when touching they seem a million miles apart. They love, but it is twisted from that notion often written about in those idealized, perfect romance stories. It was clear they cannot exist like this, poisoned slowly by their own words, thoughts, minds. And poison it is. Everything is empty that day, Alexander's eyes, Aaron's body, their small wells of sanity, control. The door to the study opens upon a room with all artefacts pushed to the walls, making an empty space save for a standing script, Alexander with his skin hidden beneath words, ink, phrases, poison. Aaron sees the pistol in hand, watches it swing up to aim to the sky, straight through the back of Alexander's head. The trigger pulls as his voice finally unlocks, and he screams, "Alexander, WAIT—" The shot fires, the man collapses backwards. Aaron stares, unbelieving. Slowly, the blood spilling onto the hardwood floor fills his mind with red, red silence, red laughs, red murmurs, red declarations, red, red, red. He falls to his knees. His lips burn, as if someone is dragging a knife against them.

His name burns on closed lips.

\--chaos.

**Author's Note:**

> For clarification: The red described at the end is me putting a bit of my perception of Hamilton in there. His voice, though it sometimes jumps to yellow or green, is mainly vivid red, quite a beautiful shade of it too. Sorry for any confusion.
> 
> Comments/kudos are always appreciated, and great for validation.


End file.
